


Worth Catching

by Emmithar



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Concussions, Dutch does not have a plan, Head Injury, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dutch Van Der Linde, Protective Hosea Matthews, Whump, Young Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: They were supposed to be keeping their heads down. Maintaining a low profile. Hosea reminding them as much when they had left him behind at camp. Arthur could remember Dutch grinning, reassuring him that they would. Insisting that they were just going to test the waters. See if there were any fish worth catching.It's what they had done.At least, for a while.
Comments: 48
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> This is just a short fic I've been dabbling in while working on Forsaken. Just a short insight into precanon stuff, and what trouble they must have gotten into in their younger days. It'll update every few days inbetween my normal schedule, and will most likely be around 3 chapters, is all. So real short
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

It had been Dutch's idea.

They were supposed to be keeping their heads down. Maintaining a low profile. Hosea reminding them as much when they had left him behind at camp. Arthur could remember Dutch grinning, reassuring him that they would. Insisting that they were just going to test the waters. See if there were any fish worth catching.

It's what they had done; for a while.

Hillburn was a mediocre place; more than a town but not yet quite a city. The beginnings of something great, or could possibly be one day, he mused. They'd rode in from the south side, across the bridge that spanned a river and straight into the heart of the bustling town. Dutch passing the time with idle chatter as they scoped the area.

It hadn't taken them long to find a tavern to settle down in. The jovial atmosphere inside was thunderous; ragged and rambunctious men already half-drunk and caught up in the throes of gambling. He and Dutch picked over the meager menu, wasting money on drink. Or rather, Arthur did – he wasn't quite seventeen yet; deemed too young to partake in such matters by many, but he had long ago become acquainted with the bitter tang of liquor. A vice, or so Hosea liked to say. Though he turned a blind eye to his habits, and Dutch...well, Dutch found it amusing-had more than once enticed him to drink til he was flat out drunk, much to Hosea's displeasure.

Dutch was no saint himself; sat across the way from him, working on his own bottle. Engrossed in a conversation-monologue rather, as Arthur had little to say in return. Using grunts and hums when words failed to come forth. Talking with Dutch was an art all of its own, the man easily swayed by his own ideals that were far too confusing for Arthur to try and follow.

He’d always been like that. Charisma, he’d heard some people call it, but Arthur didn’t quite know what it meant. He knew Dutch as a dreamer— an optimist. A fighter, a liar, a thief, sure, but so was Arthur. He wasn’t any of those other things though— he couldn’t spin a yarn and have people hanging off his every word, or charm a room with just a confident smile.

He supposed that’s why they ran together; in many ways, they were the same. Both determined, both eager, willing to fight for the life they knew they deserved. Dutch set himself upon this path though; Arthur never had a choice. The world was not kind to orphans running amok in the street; for Arthur, it was them or him. Fight or die. Dutch chose that kind of life though. He chose to leave his home in search of something greater, he chose to fight and however they got there in that way they were the same. They both bit and spat and fought for survival damn near every day, though, and they did so together. Days spent caked in mud and shit and worse, and nights spent somber, sewing each other back together in silence.

But not every night. Some nights were like this; relishing in the jubilant atmosphere, a full belly, the slight tingle of a buzz brought on by the devil's drink. Pretending for a moment they had something more than what they truly held. It was a nice feeling, he decided. Enjoying it while he could, because he knew it wouldn't last. They'd have to work to do, after all.

He wasn't sure when Dutch had gone up and left. Not that it bothered him; the man seemed to do that a lot. Disappear. The conversation between them had dwindled, and Arthur had turned to his journal. His writing had gotten better; the series of frustrating lessons he'd slogged through were paying off. Scattered notes filled the pages detailing where they'd been, what they'd seen. The rest of the blank spaces filled with sketches with things words could not describe.

Time passed. How much time he couldn't be sure. He was only slightly startled when a pair of hands fell on his shoulders, drawing him out of his revere. Arthur glancing up at the older man who stood above him, warm breath carrying notes of liquor as he whispered in his ear.

“ _Found something interesting. Come take a look.”_

He didn't question it. Didn't drag his feet or protest. He knew the man was onto something. Arthur grabbing his hat as he moved, weaving in and around other patrons as he followed Dutch's retreating form out the back door. Out into the fading light; day turning into dusk. The heavy stench of cattle assaulting his nose, as all livestock towns did. The hearty resonance of the tavern faded behind them as the crossed the road, coming to a stop under a tree. Arthur watched as Dutch leaned against it, the man motioning vaguely with one hand.

To a barn across the way. Painted bright red as many barns were, the doors ajar as men ambled in and out. He watched for a time, a frown stretching across his face as he turned back towards Dutch, baffled and confused.

“The hell you drag me out here for? I've seen a barn, 'fore, Dutch.”

He knew that'd get a reaction out of the man. Dutch was many things, but he wasn't cryptic without purpose. There was always a reason for everything, each step detailed out in his mind, moves carefully chosen. As they surely were here, though Arthur was plainly too blind to see it. A fact he was all too well versed in.

“They look like farmhands to you, Arthur?” Dutch wondered caustically, a growl under his breath as he turned back around. “Awfully clean looking fellas, and a lot of them too. Edging around there, acting all suspicious. I wonder what they're hiding.”

“Well, hows about you go up and ask them?” he suggested, fighting back a grin that was tempted to sprout on his face. Wholly unmoved when the man snorted.

“Sarcasm does not suit you, Arthur.”

“Neither do your half-baked plans,” he pointed out, folding his arms across his chest. “Thought we was supposed to be laying low, keeping our heads outta trouble?”

“We ain't gonna get into any trouble,” Dutch reassured him with a pat on the back. “We're just gonna poke our noses in, see what them folk are up to, then mosey our way on back to camp.”

Said with so much confidence he could practically swim in it.

Much as he wanted to, he bit back the cynical retort that was begging to be unleashed. Turning instead to follow Dutch back into the tavern. Ready and waiting to hear what this 'plan' was going to be.

* * *

It weren't much of a plan.

That much he could attest to. It was quite primitive, even for Dutch. Especially for Dutch. A man so bent on flair and pageantry that seeing anything but was foreign to him. But the man insisted on it; a pretense of keeping suspicion off themselves.

Hosea would be proud.

Or pissed.

Both maybe; Arthur wasn't too sure. They were thieves, first and foremost, and Hosea was a born and bred conman who could spin lies to impress his own mother, but for some reason he liked to yank on the proverbially reigns to stop their attempts before they even began. The last place they'd been, a shady spit of a town out in the midst of nowhere, had ended on a sour note, and Hosea and Dutch had spent the _entire_ journey here bickering about who's fault it had been. They'd been forced to pack up and flee, leaving half their earnings buried somewhere in the dust. A prize for a rainy day, or so Dutch liked to boast. 

Whatever the case, they needed money. And they needed to keep their heads down so they didn't end up repeating their latest endeavor. So it seemed a perfect match. Funnily enough, that was what started the fire.

An errant flame, dropped in a nearby bushel. Close enough to the barn to cause concern, but not directly affect it. And while the strange men scrambled to wrest it under control, Dutch had slipped inside. Arthur loitering near the door, ready to holler if they so much as even looked their way.

Minutes ticked by painfully, the embers continuing to burn in the distance. With each passing second, Arthur’s anxiety only crescendoed, willing Dutch to emerge from the barn. Wishing fervently that he would hurry up with whatever the hell he was doing, so they could slip away before the fire was contained.

And he did. The man reemerging with a grin all but plastered on his face. Excitement strung high in his voice as he drew Arthur close to him. Foisting a saddlebag over his shoulder. The man had been all but insistent on collecting them from the horses earlier. Dutch already having an inkling of what was transpiring. Arthur looking down in astonishment at the cash that was laden inside. A similar bag crossed over Dutch's shoulders.

“This is it, Arthur,” he breathed excitedly, “we haven't even been here for a day yet, and we've already hit the jackpot.”

“Yeah, well I'll celebrate once we're outta here,” he hissed back, earlier fervor gone. Watching as Dutch rolled his eyes, the man stepping out into the open.

“You are just like Hosea,” the man scoffed, “all your needless worrying. Come on, then.”

“Ain't needless, Dutch,” Arthur pointed out, hurrying after him. “There's a whole lotta of them and only two of us.”

Whatever the man was going to say was lost in a new clamor. Startled voices calling out, demanding that they stop. He could feel a shiver work up his spine, his throat suddenly dry. Dutch, for all his credit, didn't even break his stride. His voice low, steady as he went on.

“Keep walking; act like nothing is wrong. Once we hit the streets, we'll be golden.”

How Dutch could keep calm was beyond him. His heart was pounding, heavy in his ears, his stomach twisting into knots. He could hear the steps, sounding ever closer behind him. A snarl as one of them yelled out. 

“ _Stop, or I'll shoot!”_

“Dutch...” he breathed, voice barely a whisper. “What do we do?”

“Run.”

* * *

They ran.

Darting from the open yard and into the alleyways. A series of twists and turns that led them back to the main streets. Dutch leading the way. Determined to reach the main thoroughfare; surely once they were there, they could disappear into the bustling crowds. Or so they had thought.

Dutch's careful reassurance of that fact withering away like leaves in autumn. The streets before them deserted, barren. Empty. The hour later than either of them had realized, failing to realize that most folk were already shuttered up for the night. They had a lead; a few precious seconds that were surely wasted as they stumbled there, glancing around in a hurry. Arthur's voice all caught up in his throat as he squeaked out.

“What's the plan?”

Because Dutch always had a plan. Sheer determination in his eyes reassured him that much was true here. The man motioning with a thrust of his chin, taking off once more.

“This way!”

Dodging down yet another alley. Arthur followed— well, perhaps more accurately, he tried to follow. He’d shot up like a weed in the last few years; grown from a small, pathetic thing into a lanky, albeit imposing, young man.

With his newfound height came clumsiness. His feet, often feeling far too big for his body, had a tendency to trip him up. He'd been the butt of far too many jokes shared between Dutch and Hosea, cheeks burning in embarrassment at every slight, but he never felt quite the frustration as potently as he did now. Stumbling, nearly falling. Eyes down as he attempted to get his feet back under him.

By the time he glanced back up, Dutch was just a fleeting image, darting around the corner. He hollered after the man, voice caught up in his throat, pleading with the other to wait. To slow down. To come back. Words lost as he rounded the corner, eyes searching frantically. Dutch unseen, disappeared. Arthur all too aware of the pounding of his heart, terror seizing inside of him.

The scuffling of footsteps sounded behind him, snapping him out of his trance. Arthur took off, choosing a direction at random. He'd do his best to shake him; find a place to hide away, meet back up with Dutch once the heat died down. It wouldn't be the first time they'd been separated; Hosea and Dutch both had taught him well enough of what to do during those times. So he ran. Kept running, racing through the streets.

Turned a corner, felt his heart stop. The ground under him gone, his foot all caught up in something solid. He braced himself, somewhat. The impact sending jolts through his arms, the saddle bag heavy and swinging, pulling him further off-balance. An elbow dug heavy in the dirt, Arthur scrambling to try and get to his feet. He got one foot under him before he was hit from behind. The newest impact sending him face first into the ground.

Arms wrapped about his midsection. Holding him tight, pinning him there-still he thrust about. Wiggling and squirming about like a fish trying to break free from a line. The man who'd gotten him was hollering something, words lost beneath the cacophony of his heart thrumming in his ears.

Somehow he was on his back now. One arm pinned, the other free, swinging wildly. Another jolt racing down his arm as his fist connected with something. Warm, seeping liquid, spattering on his face. The man above of him cursing, fingers digging hard enough into his flesh to bruise. All these things he could hardly feel, numb to what was happening around him. Focused on one thing, and one thing only; escape.

“Damn bastard,” the man swore, “think you can steal from me?”

“Get off of me,” Arthur spat back, hoping his anger had leeched through the panic. Doing his best to try and seem imposing, rather than the lanky youth that he was.

“Gonna enjoy teaching you a lesson.”

“Get off-” his words cut off from the sudden blow. Pain radiating down his jaw. Head lolling to one side. Shocked-or rather, dazed. His thoughts, or the lack of them, swimming loose in his head all the sudden. Made all the worse by the second blow.

Then the third.

Something cold, and hard. Harder than bone – colder than flesh.

Gun.

The realization dim. Like a bit of wood drifting atop the river. Slippery and slimy, hard to grasp onto but there all the same. The cold bite of metal digging into his skin as the man beat him senseless.

The man had a gun.

_He_ had a gun. 

Mind grasping the thought suddenly. That bit of driftwood suddenly tangled in brambles, holding fast. He reached out with his free hand. Fingers fumbling in the dirt near him. Brushing over coarse fabric, calloused skin fumbling over bits of rock and stone, fingers digging deep into the sodden earth. He had a gun-Arthur had his own gun. 

If he could only just get it...


	2. Chapter 2

He wasn't sure when it stopped. The beating. All he knew was the weight on him was suddenly gone.

There was a dull understanding in him that the savagery had ceased, but that was all. He laid in the dirt, stunned. Arthur felt himself tremble, desperately trying to draw in a breath deep enough to satisfied his starved lungs. His mind was racing, trying to piece together what had happened. All he knew for sure was that he hurt. His body was wracked in pain. His eyes, hazy as they were, fixed on the stars above. Before drifting down to one side, hearing the scuffle. He could see the man there.

The men.

The realization dull, but there.

There were two of them. One pressed flat against the wall, a stricken, almost ghastly look on his face. The other, pressed tight against him. A glint of metal turned red, a hollow gasp ringing out. And the voice, low as it was, could still be heard if he truly listened.

“My friend here, told you to _get off._ ”

The last words punctuated in some sort of vehemence. Cold and dangerous.

Dutch...

He wasn't quite sure how the man found him. But he was glad to see him. Grateful. The earlier tension fading, something heavy seeping into his bones. He felt tired all of the sudden, though he wasn't quite sure why. He wrenched his eyes open at the guttural groan, unaware of when he closed them. Arthur watching dully as the strange man slumped to the ground. Arthur locked eyes with Dutch as the older man turned towards him, knife still clutched in his hand. There was something akin to fury on his face-that fury melting into something strange.

Consternation, if he didn't know any better.

“Shit-son,” the curse sounded odd in his ears. Dutch dropping by his side, hands reaching out for his. Arthur tried to bat him away. Suddenly aware. Suddenly embarrassed.

“'m fine,” he breathed in what he hoped was reassurance. Though it came out garbled, drowned out by the blood pooling in his mouth. He coughed, spitting it out, groaning weakly as he was sat up.

“Course you are,” Dutch still held onto him, as though afraid to let him go. “Takes more than one hick city bastard to do you in.”

He supposed that was true. Dutch was always going on about how he could hold his own. Had called him a right bastard many of times. Said he was no shrinking violet-whatever the hell that was. Right now, right now he wasn't too concerned with that. Rather his worry was on the ringing in his ears. On the fact he couldn't quite get his eyes to focus on anything.

He supposed the fact he was seeing two of everything probably wasn't good either. The world kept swaying and dipping under him, even as he tried to move. Dutch gripped him firm, forcing him to keep still.

  
“Easy-take it slow, son.”

“Ain't got the time, Dutch,” he breathed.

“Sure we do. Why, the rest of those bastards ain't got a clue where we even are.”

“But they were-” he started, only to falter. Blinking owlishly as he tried to chase that thought.

They were what?

He couldn't quite remember who _they_ even were. Or why _they_ had been chasing them. Maybe they hadn't been...maybe Dutch and Arthur had been the ones chasing, instead. Though for what reason he couldn't discern. Arthur wasn't sure anymore, if he was rightly being honest. The intricacies of it all lost on him in the next moment. His stomach plunging as he retched. Turning to one side, vomit and bile dripping from his chin, burning into his sinuses. 

His eyes were watering. 

“Shit! Easy now...alright, it's-you're fine. You're gonna be just fine,” Dutch prattled off somewhere to his right. His voice suddenly seemed further away. Strained. He felt the shame burn in his cheeks as he dragged an arm across his mouth, wiping the worst of it away.

“'m sorry,” he sputtered, unsure really of why he was apologizing.

“You're gonna be just fine,” Dutch repeated, almost in reminder. He'd moved closer, thrusting a hand under his armpit. “Come on, big boy. Let's get you on your feet. You think you can walk?”

“Sure,” he muttered dryly. Though that conviction hardly lasted. Try as he might he couldn't get his legs to cooperate. Limbs all bowed and uncoordinated like a newly born fawn. Stumbling and rightly would have fallen if Dutch hadn't shouldered his weight.

He knew he looked a fool.

More like a drunken idiot than anything else. Almost felt like he was-he'd had similar occurrences. Mind so numb from liquor he couldn't see straight let alone think. But he usually didn't hurt this bad. The pain, though mostly numb, was slowly beginning to blossom into something that was difficult to tolerate.

“Shit,” Dutch spat, exhausted; breathless, "This ain't...ain't gonna work. You aren't exactly the easiest to carry, you know.”

“I know,” Arthur let out a hum, understanding. “I'll be fine...you-you go on ahead. I'll catch up-”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Dutch growled, pulling him up to a stop. “Here, grab hold of this-right in front of you, son.”

What  _this_ was, he wasn't quite sure. He still couldn't see right. His vision swam in odd directions; not quite perpendicular, but close. His head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton, and any sort of thought was difficult to grasp onto. Still he managed to understand 'grab' and 'this'. Reaching out with shaky hands, fingers curling around the bit of wood he found.

“There we go, now you-you hold onto the fence here, and stay put. I'm gonna grab our horses. Then we'll get you back onto camp. It's gonna be alright, Arthur.”

“Sure,” he breathed. His legs wobbled, knees locking to keep him upright as Dutch let go. His head pounding anew with something fierce. Breaths heavy in his chest, lungs burning as though he'd just ran a mile.

He was a god damn mess.

His senses, taxed as they were, were slowly starting to notice the little things. The ache in his head, first and foremost, but also the tenderness in his jaw. He could taste the coppery tang of blood that was welling in his mouth, clumsily spat out between swollen lips. He was sure he noticed a loose tooth or two as well. He could feel his tongue sting, a result of being bitten. The crack in his lips as he wet them.

His mind racing, piecing it altogether. Jumbled bits of memory falling together like a scattering of wood in a fire pit. Waiting for a spark to set it aflame. For it to make some sort of sense. His fingers gripped the wood tight.

Had he...had he gotten into a fight?

It wouldn't be the first time.

He raised his head, dully, searching the area around him. Taking in his surroundings. Where the hell was he? The dark did little to help, shrouding him in further confusion. This place...he didn't recognize this place. A pen full of cattle in front of him, a rise of buildings behind him.

Were those...mountains in the distance? The shine of the moon reflecting off the snowy tops. He didn't remember mountains-they'd been in the desert, surrounded by open plains. Mountains far off in the distance, sure, but barren and void of any caps he knew of.

He felt his heart race. Sweat beading on his skin. His limbs trembling, trying in vain to remember. Something...anything...

Dutch.

Dutch had just been here.

Hadn't he?

Arthur pushed away from the fence, stumbling wildly towards the buildings. He could've sworn he'd just heard the man. Arthur's voice cracked as he called out. Words turning into a yelp as he fell. Whimpering at the pain that laced through him. He was sprawled now, flat out on the ground.

Shit...he couldn't remember being this drunk before. Hosea was gonna have his hide. The man had already expressed his dislike of Arthur getting drunk. Now he'd done that and ten times over. The world still spinning around him. A faint realization that the ground was softer beneath him than it had any right to be seeped into him.

Something pungent invading his senses. Horseshit.

He'd landed in a pile of horseshit. Or cattle-the heavy bellow nearby reminding him he was surrounded by said animals. The thought causing him to snort; a poor decision on his part. The putrid odor assaulting him. His stomach coiled all the sudden, though there was little more than bile left for him to throw up. A godsend, because he didn't even have the will to move. 

He let himself sink further into the ground. Chasing a thin tendril of sleep; a promise he'd feel better once he woke. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he had to get up. That he had to get on out of here.  _Why_ that was, he wasn't quite sure. But something tickled at the back of his mind. Pressuring him. But the thought of even lifting his head seemed far too difficult. Cajoled instead to closing his eyes. Giving into the pressing need to simply sleep off his sorry state.

“ _God dammit!”_

He flinched, eyes opening with a jolt as hands fell on his shoulders.

“I _told_ you to stay put,” Dutch sounded angry. Though his face was awash in pinched nerves as the man turned him over. He sat him up slowly, Arthur grappling with his sleeve, trying to hold himself up. Head swimming anew. 

“Didn't mean nothin' by it,” he muttered, eyes squinting, trying to remember. _Had_ Dutch told him to stay put?

“Arthur?” his voiced had changed again. Anger gone, something rigid filling its place. “Look at me.”

He tried, blinking a few good times in attempt to clear his vision. Still couldn't get things to stop spinning, feeling dizzy all the sudden. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the unpleasant feeling.

“Look at me, son,” Dutch pressed again, unrelenting. Fingers under his chin tilted his head up, and Arthur forced his eyes open, the vision of the man swimming in front of him.

“You seeing alright?”

“Sure, Dutch,” he breathed.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“What?” he croaked out, thoroughly confused now. “The hell does that have to do-”

“Answer the question, son.”

He swallowed, throat dry. Trying to focus. Trying to do what was asked of him. But the shapes floated and merged, crashing into one another. His fingers dug into the dirt beneath him, his mind racing. Trying to figure out what the other wanted.

“How many?”

“Six?” he guessed. Hardly a lick of confidence behind that answer. The damn shapes wouldn't stop moving long enough for him to count. If he even had his wits about him enough _to_ count. He waited, wondering what the other might say. Wondering if that had been enough to satisfy him.

Dutch let out a sigh, deep and winded. “Come on.”

“Was I close?” he wondered dully as he was pulled to his feet. An arm wrapped about his waist, leading him to one side.

“Well, either you aren't seeing straight, or I've grown extra fingers,” Dutch chuckled, though it lacked his usual mirth. “I think the best thing right now is to get you on home.”

“Ain't sure where that is,” he drawled, somewhat embarrassed by that confession. He'd never been this bad off that he couldn't remember something as simple as that. Usually he was good with that sort of thing.

Remembering places.

“You let me worry about that,” Dutch turned him around a corner. Arthur wavered, uncertainly, clinging to Dutch far more than he meant to. The man didn't comment, nor did he try and push him off. Rather he held on tight, encouraging him to simply put one foot in front of the other.

“You're doing just fine. Almost there; right-get your foot in the stirrup now. Count of three, we'll get you on up.”

He was glad Dutch did the counting. Arthur wasn't sure he could figure out the numbers on his own. His hands where shaking, and a new, raw tension was seeping into his shoulders as his fingers gripped the saddle horn in desperate attempt to keep himself righted. He was somewhat perplexed to find Dutch settle in behind him. Though he didn't protest as the man drew him back, wrapping an arm about his chest.

“We'll get you back to Hosea; he'll fix you up like new.”

To that, he groaned, something pitiful and slightly bitter. “Do we gotta tell Hosea?”

He'd rather keep this humiliating experience quiet. It was bad enough for Dutch to see him in such a state, but for some reason his cheeks burned at the mere thought of subjecting himself to the older man in this condition. He heard Dutch laugh behind him.

“Well, I think he's bound to notice. You are quite the sight, my dear boy.”

“We could get a hotel,” he suggested weakly. Sleep it off there. Clean himself up in the morning, when he was feeling a little less like death.

“I don't think they'd let us stay, son. Even a hick town such as this has standards,” Dutch pointed out, the horse beneath them lurching into motion. “Sides, I'm sure Hosea is wondering where we are. We've been gone for hours, and well, you know how he gets.”

To that he let out a hum. He _did_ know Hosea. Knew the man well enough that he was sure they'd both be in for a verbal lashing the moment they rode in. At Arthur for getting drunk, then at Dutch for letting him get drunk. 

“Ain't much up for a lecture,” he drawled. One last attempt to try and sway the man. 

“Ain't no one getting lectured,” the reassurance was dismal at best. Even in his state, pitiful as it was, Arthur could hear the uncertainty in the man's voice. It didn't bode well, for either of them.

But later...

He'd worry about that later.

Right now, he just wanted to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, poor Arthur. He really was knocked silly, wasn't he?
> 
> At least Dutch is somewhat sane and went back for him. 
> 
> He still has to face Hosea though.
> 
> This should be interesting...


	3. Chapter 3

Talking with Arthur was an art of its own.

He was far more apt to listen, rather than engage. Sufficing with grunts and hums when words tended to fail. Hell, it had taken them near a month to get the kid to actually speak; an endless crusade to draw him out of his shell and break down the walls he'd put up in meager defense to protect himself from the cruelties of the world.

They'd gotten used it; his quietude. Learning to understand him through posture, picking up on the emotions that he wore blatantly on his face. He'd gotten more vocal over the years, and if words were chosen carefully, they could actually get a full conversation out of him. It was possible, albeit difficult.

A difficultly that had been a little more than a nuisance. Until now. Until Arthur, limp in his hold, was failing to respond. His head titled back against his shoulder, breaths heavy and uneven as they crossed the bridge. Dutch kept spurring the horse towards camp.

“Almost there now,” he breathed in reassurance, doing the best he could to keep his voice calm. To ignore that twinge of panic that was creeping up his spine and threatening to seize his muscles. It so desperately wanted to blossom into something worse. Something dark.

His throat was tight, his mouth dry- a result of his constant attempts to try and keep the kid awake. Arthur was drifting, dangerously close to slipping. Dutch was not well versed in the intricacies of medical proficiency, but he had heard well enough the dangers of falling asleep with such injuries. Whether there was truth or not behind it, he wasn't certain.

What he was certain of was the fact he didn't want to risk it.

So he kept talking. Kept trying to get him to answer back. Even if it was just a hum. A groan. A whine. _Something._

“You still with me, boy?”

He waited a beat. Straining to hear his response. Moving when he heard nothing. Thumb and forefinger finding bare flesh. Pinching hard. A cruel tactic, for sure, but an effective one. Normally he'd settle on light slaps to his face, rousing him with feeble smacks and pointed taps; this of course provided that entirety of it had not already been bruised or bloody. The last thing Dutch wanted was to inflict further injury, so pinching it was-each and every time the kid had failed to answer him. It left him with a sourness in his mouth, something worse clutching at his chest-but it worked. He felt a small breath of relief hearing Arthur hiss, watching as the boy lifted his head a fraction.

“Dutch...stop.”

“You gotta stay with me, you hear?”

“Tired,” Arthur's plead came out more as a whine. Tugging something desperate inside of him. Dutch did his best to swallow it down.

“I know, son. I know-we ain't too far off now. You can sleep soon, just-just stay up a little longer.”

There was a grunt in response, Arthur's head coming to rest against his shoulder once more. Though a quick glance reassured him, eyes half-lidded and wandering aimlessly. No doubt attempting to take in his surroundings. Arthur, trying, at least to humor him. Trying to stay awake for his sake. Dutch feeling a mixture of pride that was heavily wrought by guilt.

He hadn't thought him to be that bad off. Not at first. This wasn't anything new after all. Arthur liked trouble, it seemed. Dutch unable to even begin to count the number of times they'd patched the kid up after less than favorable encounters.

True, there _had_ been a copious amount of blood. But that was hardly anything new; a commonality in fights. And oh did he ever like to fight. Sometimes justified. Other times, his anger surging out of nowhere. Tackling folk twice his size out with little regard, as though he was a rabid dog. Sometimes it was amusing to watch. Other times, concerning.

Dutch and Hosea both preferred words and wit over violence. Charm and trickery their counterparts. Arthur lacked their verbosity, and simply preferred his fists. He was always more tempered when Hosea was with them, but Dutch? Not as much.

Dutch suspected part of that was his fault. Seeing the number of times he let the kid rustle before intervening. Hell, half the time he'd encourage it, for entertainment's sake alone, before pulling the ragged teen off the poor individual on the receiving end of his wrath. By then, Arthur was typically left disheveled, looking grisly and unkempt, but none worse for the wear.

Turns out there was a first time for everything.

The worry resting heavy with him. A small part of him knowing he could have stopped this had he just paid more attention. Too busy and too concerned on getting out of there to notice. Of course he hadn't expected this. How could he have?

He'd noticed, all too late, on how silent the night around him had been. A heavy feeling kicking him in the gut when he realized he was on his own. He'd pressed it down tight, a weak attempt to convince himself the kid had split. Had gone his own way. It was a practice they had down near perfect, after all.

But something sat funny in his gut. Because he knew that Arthur had been right behind him. Dutch had found himself rooted to the spot. Unable to move; searching. Waiting. Hoping to see him round the corner a moment later. He had heard it then. The scuffle. The stuttered cries. Dutch paling. Quiet as he was, he knew Arthur's voice...and the pitiful cries gripped him tight.

It was something he'd hoped to never hear again. Dutch almost certain it'd haunt him in the nights to come. A thought he chased away, reaching down to pinch him once more. Rousing the kid from his near slumber. The soft moan encumbered him with another wave of remorse. Dutch feeling as though he was swimming in a sea of regret.

The same regret he'd felt upon hearing Arthur's plead for the man to get off him. Dutch had dropped the money; the fortune so easily snatched, was forgotten even easier as he hurried back. Anger seething at the sight before him. Arthur pinned down, face bloodied, the butt of the gun driven into his face over and over again. Dutch seizing the man by the collar, hauling him off and slamming him into the wall. Blood coursing through his veins like fire.

He wasn't aware that he'd even killed the man until fresh blood flowed over his hands. The thought hardly registering. New worries seeping into him instead as he turned back to Arthur. The kid hadn't moved, still sprawled flat on his back, a tremor racing through him. Almost drowning in blood, his features near indistinguishable.

There had been the smallest flicker of relief upon hearing him talk. Even if he couldn't walk straight. Still, he was moving, albeit sluggishly. Uncoordinated; unable to hold his own. God, he did _not_ want to leave the kid, not like this, wavering in place and befuddled as he was.

But he couldn't exactly drag him through town. Arthur was quite hefty for his age; a sudden surge of height and girth gained over these past months. No longer was he that pitiful scrawny thing they'd found huddled in a ditch; half-starved and small enough to sling over their shoulders. No-he'd grown, that much apparent seeing that the short distance they'd crossed had all but done in him. Dutch winded and utterly spent. He knew in his heart they couldn't keep going like this.

He knew they needed their horses. Horses they'd left clear on the other side of town. And at the rate they were going, it'd take far too long. So he'd found a spot, far enough away from the road he'd be overlooked. Had figured it'd be easier on the both of them this way. Arthur could focus on keeping himself upright, and Dutch could bolt like a madman to the hitching posts.

A flawless plan.

Or so he thought.

Because he'd come back to find the fence line conspicuously empty. His heart plummeted, terror wrought within him, heart pounding furiously as he searched. Terrified at what he might find. Arthur had vanished. Taken by another one of those bastards? Or found by the law? He couldn't be sure, and Dutch's voice echoed hollowly in his ears as he called out, frantically searching the area.

He'd almost tripped over him.

His clothes so soiled and muddy that he'd blended in with the ground. Relief flooding him first, anger closely behind. Dutch unable to bite back the curse, dragging the kid out of the mud and shit he'd landed in. Impressively, he'd managed quite a distance. How, Dutch wasn't sure, seeing as he couldn't even keep himself upright.

His anger had quickly vanished though, noticing just then.

On how wide his eyes were. How they darted about, quick and uncertain, unable to focus. A dazed, absent look adorning his features. Speculations forming in Dutch's mind, all but confirmed when he failed to answer what seemingly was an easy question.

He knew it was bad.

He could only hope it wasn't going to get worse. The hope, timid, hardly bolstered by the sight of the campfire in the distance. Still he mustered a breath, thrusting forth what little confidence he had.

“You'll be just fine, son.”

He'd be just fine. He had to be.

Dutch wouldn't entertain any other possible outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little insight into Dutch's perspective. 
> 
> We'll get to Hosea next chapter. I'm sure he'll be just fine with everything that's happened 
> 
> :D


	4. Chapter 4

He was gonna kill the both of them.

Leaving him here with all this work.

Camp had still been in shambles and hardly broken in when Dutch, determined, had pulled himself atop his steed, loudly proclaiming he was going to see to town. Arthur had been just as quick in scrambling after him, desperate to avoid chores altogether. Hosea had protested at first-seeing as he didn't much like the idea of doing everything himself. 

Honestly, he didn't much like the idea of Dutch and Arthur heading off alone. It was hardly a wise decision. Dutch's proclivity towards stirring the pot was well known, even in the beginning of their relations. Hosea preferred to play it slow; take his time to understand the situation. Look at all potential solutions. In truth, he reckoned it to be much like laying out a long fuse. Something that would burn slow and give them enough time to stomp out the flame if need to be.

Dutch on the other hand liked to damn decorum and simply light it. Preferring action to inaction; wanting results with little work put into it. Adding Arthur into the mix, unchecked-well, that was like throwing a damn match right into the crate.

Still, he bit his tongue – all too tired of the recent hassle he'd been given for his dour attitude. The never ending charade of disputes and excuses fouling the air between them on the journey here. Dutch unable and unwilling to accept any sort of responsibility. If Hosea was being honest, he just about had his fill of Dutch Van der Linde these past days. They both sorely needed a break from one another, a bit of respite.

So he'd let them go with a reminder to _stay_ out of trouble. Then he'd set to work. 

It taken him near an hour alone to pitch the tents. Getting the posts lined up was a talent in its own, and draping the canvass was often a chore with two people let alone himself. His arms aching and tired from the hours spent driving, furthered by the constant reaching over his head. A mild bitterness catching in his chest at the thought of both Dutch and Arthur lounging lazily about some town while he worked away.

Damn bastards.

Hosea was slowly beginning to regret letting them go. Even more so as another hour passed, the wagon only half empty. It'd take him all night at this rate, the thought weighing on him heavily. Though he could hardly stop now. The pair would return, drunk no doubt, and be of little help. So he kept working.

He'd set about making the fire next. Bundling wood found scattered amongst the trees. Ax heavy in his hands as swung it repeatedly, chipping away kindling to feed the fire that would come. He'd managed to find a pair of logs that weren't too badly decomposed, and dragged them back towards camp with the help of his horse. He set them around the fire that was slowly coming to life as daylight began to fade.

He even managed to snag a rabbit.

Dutch and Arthur would eat in town. Of that he was certain; and doubtful they'd bring anything back to share. So he set about, skinning the creature and setting him atop the fire to cook. Placed near a pot of water that was slowly warming; he was determined to have some tea, something he rarely indulged in to ease his aching muscles. Then he sat, resting for the first time that night, book in his hands, ready to finally relax.

And if, on cue, he heard the horses coming.

Of course they'd show up after all the hard work was done. Hosea was more than ready to give them a piece of his mind. He thought through his lecture; words carefully chosen though lighthearted in nature. Something to make his displeasure known, but not enough to start a full fledged fight. He didn't have it in him, not tonight. Weary as he was.  
  


He rose to his feet, arms crossed in front of him as he watched them ride in. Calling out, “You boys missed all the fun.”

The light jab, dying-like withering embers. The pair of them, atop a single horse. Nothing new, but surely unusual. His heart skipping a beat as they drew near, the glow of the fire casting odd shadows across their forms. Hosea seeing, for a moment, the thin lipped worry that creased Dutch's face. Noticing just then how still Arthur was-limp and relaxed in Dutch's hold. The boy turned away, head resting against Dutch's shoulder.

He tried to bite back the sudden surge of concern. Tried to reassure himself that everything was fine; that this was only the latest attempt to pull one over on him. Lord knows they'd held similar antics before, the pair of them wily and rambunctious and filled to the brim with poorly thought ideas they liked to call pranks. Seemed as though they were determined to send him to an early grave, what with all the trouble they got into.

But as Dutch drew to a stop, turning the horse towards him, the wash of firelight cascaded over the boy's prone form. Highlighting the blood and grime that coated him, from head to toe-the two so intermixed it was impossible to tell where one began, and the other ended. He found himself unable to move, feeling something sour blossom inside of him. It was worry, first and foremost, though it was quickly chased away by anger. By rage. Exasperation. Far too many emotions coursing through him to handle.

Somehow he found his voice. Low and bitter and raspy and choked. Words all the same, biting through the silent air.

“What. Happened?” He found himself moving-though how he wasn't quite sure. His limbs felt uncoordinated, moving on their own accord.

“Oh, you know me,” Dutch bit back, voice bitter and dry, “always looking for a bit of trouble to liven things up.”

Hosea grit his teeth tight enough to make his jaw ache. “Dutch Van der Linde, what in the hell did _you_ do?”

“I-” he faltered, eyes darkening at the accusation. “You honestly _think_ that this was me? How does _any_ of this look like my fault?”

“You damn well know what I mean! You were only gone a couple of hours,” Hosea gestured sharply, coming up alongside them. “You said we were laying low; keeping our heads down. What the hell happened to that?”

“I found a score,” the man said simply. Coldly. “Things didn't quite go to plan.”

“I have it in mind to throttle you,” he cursed slowly. Angrily. Watching the man, sat high atop the horse. Arthur had hardly stirred during all of this, Hosea unsure of how desperate the situation truly was. Part of him wanted to gather the boy in his arms. To keep him safe from any further harm that might be inflicted upon him by Dutch's foolery. Another part of him wanting to turn, to leave. To let Dutch deal with it all. Let him clean up his own mess for once.

But Arthur surely didn't deserve that. Hell, he probably didn't even deserve this in the first damn place. “So you gonna tell me what idiocy you forced him into this time?”

“I didn't _force_ him into anything,” Dutch growled, defensive.

A weak defense.

This wasn't the first damn time the man had gotten some silly stupid notion in his head. Eager to act before actually thinking through. And Arthur just as eager to prove himself that the kid went along with the half-baked idea no matter the risk to himself. It's how he ended up shot a few months back. How he'd nearly busted his arm the year prior. How he _had_ busted his ribs that one winter, jumping off a damn cliff into a river in attempt to avoid the law.

That one had been over stealing a damn pig.

Nothing more than a stupid dare that Dutch had goaded him into after they'd gotten drunk. They had managed alright, though the discovery of Arthur's wounds hadn't been brought to light until they'd come crawling back to camp. Drenched and miserable and none-the-wiser.

Hosea watched the man sigh, his face pinched tight in worry. “Look, it wasn't anyone's fault. It just...shit went wrong, okay?”

“That so?” he hissed sourly, hands reaching out to wrap around the boy's arm, pulling him from the saddle. “Who coulda guessed-leave you in charge for an afternoon and shit just happens to go wrong.”

“I swear, Hosea, this _wasn't_ my fault,” Dutch scowled, helping to maneuver the kid down. “It-it-”

There was a weariness in his voice that Hosea didn't think he'd ever heard before. Something like a whimper breaking free.

“Just help him, will you?”

“Of course I'm gonna help him,” Hosea spat, “ _someone_ has to.”

What in the world did Dutch think he was doing? Arthur was awake, though clearly not aware. Form sinking heavily in his hold. Hosea wrapped an arm about his shoulders, voice low-steady and firm. Talking to him, trying to get him to answer. Something...anything.

“Don't let go of him,” Dutch pointed out as though he needed to be told, “he ain't walking straight. Ain't seeing straight neither.”

Hosea ignored him. His own focus on the kid, trying to get him to stand upright. Arthur seemed awake; though with how uncoordinated he was, he might as well not been. He reached out with shaky hands, grappling with Hosea's vest, his fingers bunching into the folds of the fabric. Clinging to him like some sort of salvation. It was easy to feel the tremor that raced through him, even easier to hear the soft panted whines that filtered out through clenched teeth. Hosea felt his heart clench a little. The tightness in his chest amplify. Sympathy shot straight to worry as he helped over towards the fire. Arthur's voice soft, almost whispered.

“Think I went 'n got all messed up,” Arthur muttered, words slurred and not all the way there.

“Had a rough go, did you?” Hosea voice something shy of pity. Holding tight to him he stumbled, sluggish in his hold. Something that wasn't as easy as it should have been. Arthur had almost outgrown them all. Given a few more years, he'd be a force to be reckoned with.

Now though...now he looked all his few short years. Hosea taken back to those first few weeks, a reminder of how beaten and broken the kid had been. It only encouraged him to hold him tighter. Closer. As though he could chase away all the misery and misfortune he'd suffered. Settling him down on the log near the fire, the warmth of the flames cascaded over them both.

It in the breath of firelight he could well see the wounds. Face mangled with welts and bruises, no doubt more hidden under the layer of filth that coated him. Looking worse than he thought; worse than seemed possible. His voice was thick in his ears, Hosea doing his best to ignore the ferocious echo of his heart, doing his best to keep his nerves calm.

It'd do no one any favors to panic now.

“Why don't we get you cleaned up, huh?” he grabbed the pot of water from the fire. Seems like he wouldn't be having any tea tonight. Though the blessing was there, the water warm under his hold. Dutch passed him a bundle of rags, Hosea taking them wordlessly, dampening them. Gently working away the dirt that coated his features.

He whimpered, even under the light touch. Hosea feeling the pang in his heart, clutching tight. He swallowed back the remorse that was slowly building inside him. Chasing away the anger that wanted to surge in its place.

“You're alright now,” he did his best to bolster him. To reassure him. Forced himself to keep talking-if only to calm his own nerves. “Get you all cleaned up; feeling better.”

Layer after layer of grime was wiped away. Revealing his bruised flesh beneath. A spattering of color that was unnatural. He'd been hit. Hard-and more than once. A torrent of disgust racing through him, irascible anger threatening to choke him. Not only at Dutch for allowing this to happen, but towards whatever cold, cruel bastard that had seen fit to beat on someone who was more a child than a man.

He wanted, more than anything, to trek towards that backwater town. Lay into the fiend who dared lay his hands on his boy. He thought of ripping him to parts, muttering as much. Words lost in the wind. Or so he thought. Looking over as Dutch scoffed, the man coming out of Arthur's tent, a bundle of fresh clothes in his hands.

“Bastard's good and dead.”

“At least you did something right,” Hosea scowled, though dark and dismal thoughts danced in his mind. He doubted the man had been made to suffer. Probably departed this world in far less pain than Arthur was in now.

It didn't seem right.

He let out a sigh, holding another rag up to his nose. “Come on then-blow your nose for me.”

The whine was pitiful, Arthur weakly batting him away. “Hosea-”

“Come on,” he ignored the gesture-it was little more than a faint tap anyway. “Less you wanna smell shit all night.”

He felt the boy stiffen in his hold, followed by a weak attempt to give in. Whimpering pitifully during the whole ordeal. Hosea wiping out the bits he could, folding the rag, pressing it against his nose once more. The second attempt worse than the first, but it would have to do, he reckoned. It was better than it was a moment ago-a faint hope that it would give him some relief.

He tossed the soiled rag aside. Moved to grab another one. The same process repeating; careful dabs and gentle wipes. Working away the worst of the grime, until his skin was clean and fresh. Fingers held onto him in tender embrace.

Hosea could feel Arthur tremble under his touch.

“It's all alright now-ain't no reason to be afraid. You're safe here, with us. Dutch and I? We aren't gonna let anything happen to you.”

“Ain't scared,” the whisper came out after a moment. Stunted and reserved. As though he wanted to believe it, but was unsure.

“What's on your mind, Arthur?” he wondered, rag forgotten as he worked the buttons on his shirt. Watching as Arthur first tried to help, before abandoning his efforts altogether.

“Jus' tired,” he breathed in response. A whimper in his words. Flooding him with yet more sorrow.

“We're almost done, I promise,” he did his best to give him a sympathetic smile. “You ain't wanna sleep in these anyhow; you'll catch your death for sure.”

He worked the shirt off his trembling frame. A faint wave of relief to see he was unblemished underneath. Seemed like the worst of assault had been to his face. Though that was hardly a comfort; he'd seen folk turn idiot before after being knocked in the head. The same worry sitting quietly with him now, no matter how he tried to chase it off.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

He could just as easily ask Dutch. He might even get a somewhat truthful answer; but the answer wasn't so much what he was seeking. Truth be told, Hosea just wanted to hear him talk. To keep him talking – if only to keep him awake. And to calm his own worries that were flitting about his head like a sparrow.

“Dun' remember.”

Arthur's answer did anything but. Hosea stilling in his motions, shooting an uneasy glance over towards Dutch. The same concern crossing his face. 

“You will,” he spoke calmly, swallowing that fear as he turned back towards him. He began to button the fresh shirt up. His fingers were trembling, making it hard to do so. “You just got knocked about a bit; it'll come back to you in the morning.”

“I ain' ever drinkin' again,” he muttered dryly.

A surge of annoyance flooded him as he heard Dutch laugh. Something short and dry as the man responded. “You ain't drunk, son. Though I'm sure you wish you was.”

“Dutch,” Hosea hissed, the growl caught in his throat.

“What?” the man wondered innocently. “You have to admit it's true.”

Maybe it was. He wasn't sure-it was a speculation he decided to ignore. His focus back on Arthur, watching the boy as he shivered despite the fresh shirt, and the warmth of the fire. Hosea ran a hand down his arm, squeezing gently. A feeble attempt to give him some comfort.

“Can you tell me what you last remember?”

To that, the boy opened his mouth, but failed to come up with any words. His jaw working over a few times, finally stuttering. “I...I...”

“Can you tell me where we are?”

He figured they might get better results if the question weren't so open ended. Hosea's eyes locked on Arthur as the boy shifted. A low hum coming out. He could swear there was a hint of irritation in there.

“We at camp.”

It was a simple answer, but it emboldened him all the more. A smile on his face as he nodded. “We are-do you remember where camp is?”

He watched as Arthur lifted his head, gazing around the camp wearily. Another low hum coming out. “Ain't the desert no more.”

“That's right-we left a few days back. Came up north here, right outside of-”

“Hillburn,” Arthur breathed before he could finish.  
  


“Attaboy,” Hosea couldn't even begin to describe the warmth that flooded through him. The smile broad on his face. “See-you remembering. You'll be just fine.”

He watched him. Eyes cascading over his hunched form, his head hanging wearily. Eyes dropping as he shivered. His hair was still a mess, though Hosea suspected that would have to be tended to later. It was doubtful the kid would last through that ordeal-he'd simply collapse halfway through.

“Alright-think you oughta get some rest now?”

He watched as Arthur gave a small nod, though he made no effort to move. Sitting firmly in one spot.

“Come on then-I'll help you to your tent.”

A whine this time, followed by the smallest shake of his head. A chuckle escaping Hosea in return.

“What? You just figure you're gonna lie down here? Sleep next to the fire?”

An even smaller nod. Though silence this time-Arthur not even meeting his eyes. Hosea felt sympathy, fresh and raw, seeping through him. He gave in easily. It would be better anyway, he reckoned, for him to be out here. Easier to keep an eye on him. A sad smile crossing his lips.

“Alright-Dutch will get your things, and we'll lay you on down out here.”

It took but a minute. Though Hosea had the uncanny feeling he was asleep even before then. Dutch watching him close as Hosea tucked the blanket about him. He moved, sitting on the log near Arthur's head, returning Dutch's stare. The man, usually quiet, finally elected to break the silence.

“You sure we should let him sleep?”

Hosea scoffed, annoyed. Bitter and resentful and sullen and exhausted. Far too many things to say without breaking into an argument. He swallowed all those dangerous and dastardly thoughts, pursing his lips.

“What? You figure on just keeping him awake forever?

“Of course not,” Dutch was quick in defending himself. “Just until we know he's not gonna...you know.”

“He ain't dying-despite your best efforts.”

“Hosea-”

He cut him off, a weariness in his voice. “Get some rest, Dutch. I'll keep an eye on him for now.”

He was surprised to see the man take a seat by him, near Arthur's feet. “You really think I'm gonna be able to sleep, old girl?”

Hosea ignored the endearment, still too caught up in bitter feelings. “You best; because you're taking second watch.”

He moved before Dutch could say anymore. He grabbed his book, remembering just then about the rabbit he had been cooking.

He turned quickly, a new disappointment welling inside at the sight before him.

His supper was burnt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, what a chapter!
> 
> I hope this fulfills the angry, protective, caring Hosea we all know and love. He isn't gonna let anything happen to his boy. :)
> 
> Dutch is trying- I guess we gotta give him credit for that.
> 
> Despite how many times he's tried to inadvertently kill Arthur. 
> 
> No wonder Hosea is grey by the time we see him in game....


	5. Chapter 5

Waking was an unpleasant and entirely unwanted experience.

His entire body thrummed in muted pain, though the worst of it was centered in his head. Felt apt to split open, like an overripe melon. Throbbing in tandem with his heart. For a time he could almost ignore it. Pretend it was nothing but an ill dream.

Almost.

Because with each passing moment, it was becoming harder to ignore. Pain like claws driving into his skin, feeling as though they were tearing his flesh clean away from his bones. Festering in his joints, gnawing at sinew. Eager and anxious to make him hurt simply because it could.

He let out a muted whimper, tensing at the hand that came to rest between his shoulders. Relaxing a moment later as fingers carded through his hair gently. A low hum in the voice as it broke the silence.

“Hurtin'?”

He let out a groan in response. What kind of stupid question was that? Hurting didn't even begin to cover how he felt. He'd entered a whole new realm of pain he wasn't even aware existed. Part of him wondered if he was dying. Another part was almost eager to accept it. The last part of him wondering out loud, curious.

There was a soft laugh that answered. “You ain't dying; stop being melodramatic.”

Hosea's voice comforted him a little. Only just. The rest of him still caught in the throes of pain. Of muted panic. Wondering what had happened. To what had taken place that had left him so miserable and pathetic. Mind racing, thoughts scrambling as he tried to think through the pain. To piece together some sort of explanation. Bits and pieces coming back to him, sluggish like rain attempting to turn to snow.

He could remember Dutch. Faint recollections manifesting in his mind. Of the ride to town. Of the saloon. The food they'd had, the drinks...

Had he...had he gotten drunk? It'd happened before, and he'd always been miserable, but never quite like this. Never this bad. His thoughts spinning, trying to sort themselves.

His curiosity must have been wondered out loud. Hosea rubbing small circles on his back, answering with warmth in his voice.

“You didn't get drunk. Just got a little rattled, is all. You'll be fine.”

That, he was certain, was debatable. He didn't feel like he'd be fine. Hell, he wasn't sure he'd ever be anything but _hurting._ He finally mustered the wherewithal to move, timidly. Reaching up with a hand to prod timidly at his face. Wincing at the soreness there, unsure of exactly where the pain was. His pounding head, or his aching hand. He could feel the warmth there, swollen flesh beneath his fingertips. He wet his lips, voice garbled as he wondered.

“...a fight?”

“Something like that,” Hosea confirmed his suspicions. “I'd say 'you should see the other guy', but I think they already buried him.”

To that, he let out a hum. Eyes still closed, thoughts drifting back to the previous night. Memory picking out the most likely candidates he might have pissed off. He could remember, vaguely, faces. The bartender. A big, burly fella that had been playing cards. A drunken fool they'd nearly tripped over coming into the place.

Any one of them could have been culprit.

But Arthur didn't remember fighting them. He remembered thinking he _could_ fight them, but he thought that of most people. Though clearly he _had_ fought someone. The evidence all too clear at the quiet ache that raced through his body. At least he was still alive, and nothing felt broken. 

It was a start.

“Why don't we sit you up a bit?” Hosea hummed nearby, hooking a hand under his arm before he could even protest.

The thought of being upright sat ill with him, nausea already churning. Unwanted and wholly disinclined to try, but Hosea was always a stubborn bastard. The man forcing him up, slowly but surely, until he was seated. Arthur did his best to bite back the groan that seeped out, fingers dug sharp into the blankets beneath him. Hosea held onto him until he was certain he wouldn't simply topple over.

He felt....strange. Sitting up was different. Entirely. His vision funny before him, and it took several long moments for Arthur to realize he could only see out of one eye. The other swollen shut and tender under his panicked touch. Least he still had his eye. To his side, Hosea pressed something into his hand, waiting for Arthur to remember how his fingers worked. The cup was warm in his grip; comforting. He watched the tea swirl in the mug, letting loose curls of steam that carried a strong herbal scent.

“You work on that a bit, see how it sits with you.”

He sipped the golden liquid slowly. A little bitter, though there was a tang of honey that sweetened it. Soothed his throat as well. He could swear he felt the tension ease in his shoulders, his body hurting a little less.

“Alright?”

Arthur nodded, a small and slow motion as he nursed the tea some more, watching the fire crackle and spit before him. Lower than normal, on the account of the time of day. Close to noon, if by any indication of the sun hanging in the sky. The thought sitting heavy with him; he could have sworn it was just night. He must have slept through, clear til now.

The worse part was the fact Dutch and Hosea had let him. Normally they'd nudge him awake shortly after daybreak. Telling him to a get a move on, and not spend the day lazing around. How bad off had he been for them to let that pass this time? He shuddered to think about it.

He wasn't looking forward to the lecture that'd follow either. Dutch no doubt had spent the entire morning readying a speech to deliver. He glanced around the camp, suddenly aware. A frown on his face as he realized.

“Where's Dutch?”

The man nowhere to be found. Which was...concerning. Because as fuzzy as his mind was, he could distinctively remember Dutch being with him; that was all. He had no idea what had become of him. If Arthur had gotten so messed up, chances were Dutch had as well.

“Ah, he went on back to town. You know how he is,” Hosea commented nonchalantly, tossing another log the fire. He watched the flames lick at it eagerly. “Checking how things are, I reckon.”

His explanation only confused Arthur all the more.

“What?”

“You know; he's seeing if we need to pack things up and head on out,” the man explained causally, sitting back down near him.

“So soon?”

Had he caused that much trouble in town? All this, over a little fight? The worry sat with him heavy, his stomach suddenly sour. If they had to leave because he was too much of a fool-

He flinched at the hand that reached out, meeting Hosea's own worried gaze. The man stilling in his movements until he relaxed. Then clasped his shoulder, gently, a warm smile on his face.

“Still ain't remember much of last night, huh?”

That much was apparent-even so he shook his head, turning away. The tinge of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks. “Guess not.”

“Well...I don't know much of it myself, but I guess you and Dutch found a score and tried to get along with it. And as usual, plans didn't quite go to plan. Any of this ring a bell?”

To that, he blinked. The smallest piece of the puzzle falling into place. Remembering the barn. Remembering the alley, remembering...not much else. But it was enough. Arthur sat quiet, digesting the information.

“Dutch okay?” he breathed, remembering the blood. Remembering there had been a _lot_ of blood- though he wasn't quite sure who had bled, or why. 

“Dutch is just fine,” Hosea reassured him, glancing up over his shoulder. “Matter of fact, I think that's him now-” Hosea titled his chin towards the entrance of their camp, following the sound of jingling horse tack.

Arthur heard him too. The clop of hooves, coming in through the treeline. Even so he didn't move, still too grounded by the ache in his bones to muster the strength to try. Hosea did move though, pushing his way to his feet, watching the man come in.

“How'd you get on?”

“Just fine,” he could hear Dutch answer, almost gleefully. A wistfulness in his voice that Arthur had come to appreciate. “Like I figured, law knows there was some kind of scuffle but they ain’t sure who it was. Them boys weren’t too keen to involve the law, I guess. Spent an hour poking around just to be sure, but I think we are in the clear.”

“You sure?” Hosea pressed. The man always did worry, but at the moment, Arthur was inclined to agree with his concern.

“Course I'm sure,” Dutch grumbled, coming into his view. The man had a sack slung over his shoulder, a smile wide on his face as he met his eyes.

“Good to see you up, son. How you doing?”

“M alright,” Arthur hummed softly.

“Longest he's been awake,” Hosea added, taking a seat once more. “Reckon he'll be just fine.”

“Sure he will be,” Dutch agreed, that same smile on his face. “Why, give a day or two, and he'll be back on his feet! We'll head back into town then, take a gander – they got a nice stable there, Arthur. You'll love it. Why, they must have at least fifty horses there!”

The thought of heading anywhere, even to look at horses, didn't amuse him. Arthur didn't much like the concept of moving; at least, not this moment. His mouth felt dry as he tried to reach for a reply. Silently grateful to hear Hosea answer in his stead.

“I think we ought to keep him out of town, at least till the bruising goes down. The law might not recognize you, but one them fellas had Arthur-I ain't taking any chances.”

“The damn fool that had him is long dead,” Dutch snapped. “Ain't none of the others gonna notice him.”

So, that was what Hosea meant when he said Arthur should have seen the other fella. He could remember now. Dutch had killed that man. He wouldn't say that he was sorry, even he had sense enough to know an apology wasn't appropriate, but he felt...strange, in a way. He swallowed the feeling down, shoved it as far away as he could.

It weren't like Dutch had much a choice, after all.

“Still-best not push our luck,” Hosea pushed once more.

“You worry far too much, old girl,” Dutch chided him, looking back at Arthur suddenly. “I got you strawberries, Arthur. Know you like them.”

The man dug in the bag, pulling the tin free. Arthur tried his best to wave him off, but Dutch had already opened the tin, thrusting it out towards him. The sweetness assaulted his nose, turned his stomach a little. Still he forced a smile, muttering a weak thanks. Even forced himself to sip a little-Dutch seemed adamant he eat anyway, watching him with eager eyes.

“And don't think I forgot about you,” Dutch muttered just then, fishing a book out as well. He held it out towards Hosea, expectantly, the man taking it with a questioning gaze.

“This your way of apologizing? Bribery?”

“What?” Dutch seemed shocked, “I resent that-I just saw it, and I know how you enjoy a good Filson book.”

“You just happened to see it while walking about the town?”

“They have a book store, Hosea. Hang me for stepping inside for a moment.”

“How about the money? You happen to find any of that on your ventures?”

Arthur stilled, the tin suddenly heavy in his hand. The money-of course. They had found money. And a  _lot_ of it. Arthur looking up quickly, wanting to know as well. Feeling his heart sink a little as Dutch shook his head.

“I am afraid that the money is long gone. We can't go looking for it now-”

“No,” Hosea agreed, voice thin, “course not. You found a score that might have worked, and instead of coming up with a real plan, you go with the first scatterbrained thought that enters your head.”

“You think I wanted it this way?” Dutch wondered, waving a hand. “I thought it was going to be easy, I didn't expect...” he trailed off, waving a hand with a sigh.

A sigh that hit Arthur like the weight of bricks. Heavy and painful; barely able to swallow the lump in his throat as he turned away. They'd lost it because of him. He knew that now; his jumbled mind piecing enough of the story together to understand what had happened. He'd fallen behind, had gotten caught. Nearly killed, and because of all that, the money was gone.

He wasn't even aware he'd been muttering apologies. Not until the air about him was still and quiet, and he found the pair of them watching. It was instinctual; a reflex, though he damn well meant it. Hosea was the first to break the silence.

“What are you sorry about, son?”

“The money,” he breathed, almost ashamedly. “I know we only lost it cause of me-”

“Now, don't you think for a moment that that money was worth catching more than you,” Hosea cut him sharply. “You hear me?”

“But we need money,” Arthur pressed, looking at the both of them.

“We can always get more money, son,” Dutch reinforced what Hosea had just said.

“Dutch is right-there's gonna be plenty of opportunity for that later.”

Of that, he wasn't so certain. Times had been hard as of late, and this could have been a way to set them up good for a long time coming. All of it lost, an opportunity slipped right through their fingers. At least they didn't have pack and leave. The smallest bit of fortune, he guessed. His thoughts drifting as he listened to Dutch and Hosea talk, the pair of them doing what they always did best. Making plans.

Plans he hardly heard. His gaze narrowing, and limbs growing heavy. Feeling far too exhausted for what little he'd done. For all he hadn't done. He wasn't even aware he was trembling; not until Hosea touched him arm. Bringing him out of his stupor.

“You're shaking, my dear boy.”

“I'm fine,” he forced out of his dry throat. A trained response, though he hardly felt it. He was so exhausted by now that he didn't even fight as the tin was taken from him. He'd only taken a few bites, but even those sat heavy and stagnant inside of him.

“Come here,” Hosea held out one arm. Arthur watching him in confusion.

“Why?”

“Just come here,” Hosea let out a sigh, taking him by the arm. He drew him to one side. Seemed like the man was putting him to bed. Something he could hardly protest against. Sleep would do him good-he'd wake when he was feeling less miserable. So he relented. Let the man guide him. But instead of being laid down, as he expected, Hosea drew him near, easing him back against his chest.

For a moment, he was tense. Rigid. But he found himself relaxing, slowly sinking into his hold. Relishing in the warmth. He could hear Hosea's heart, thrumming steadily in his ear-a strangely, comforting feeling. And he was so tired, that for a moment he wasn't even aware of what was happening.

Until he felt the blanket being tucked in around him. Arthur cracking an eye open, watching as Dutch covered him with the rest of the blanket. His voice gravely as he protested.

“You ain't need to do this.”

“We know,” Hosea didn't even seem upset. He wasn't quite sure how to react to that.

“I ain't a kid,” he breathed. He couldn't even remember the last time he slept pressed up against someone. His mother, maybe-long before she passed and his father-well his father never gave him the time of day.

“Hush-close your eyes and get some rest,” Hosea encouraged him. His voice easy and comforting, “We'll wake you when it's time for supper.”

To that, he hummed. He'd barely eaten the strawberries Dutch had bought. He doubted he'd manage a full supper. Though he figured that would be a concern for later.

For now, he was going to get some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the end - just something short. Surely sweet at the end. 
> 
> I can fully picture Dutch bringing back armloads of stuff in attempt to bribe everyone and win their favor back. He seems like the type lol.
> 
> For now though, they're both taking care of their boy, like they should :)
> 
> Leave your thoughts, and I'll see you on some other stuff I have going on!


End file.
